


The Little Moments

by Carry_On_My_Assbutt



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:21:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carry_On_My_Assbutt/pseuds/Carry_On_My_Assbutt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, sweet, (sometimes kinky) moments filled with Destiel and Johnlock. (Rated M to be safe).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Moment

"Dean," Castiel called out, peering around a corner. Looking around anxiously, Castiel took a step forward, his footsteps louder in his ears than ever. Dean had told Castiel to wait for him while he went to investigate a large, rundown, abandoned building where a skinwalker had thought to be residing in. “Dean,” Castiel called out, louder as he put his hand on the handle, ready to open the door, when he whirled around to see Dean, who held up his hands. 

“Whoa, calm down there.” 

Relaxing slightly, Castiel looked around again. “What have you found out?” Castiel asked. Dean rolled his shoulders, sighing. 

“Well, the bastard’s not here. He’s probably out hunting again. We need to track him down before he catches his next victim.” Castiel nodded. “Well, I suppose we should go back to the car, Castiel.”

“Yes, that would be the best idea.” Castiel said. Dean laughed, and began to walk away. Castiel raised his eyebrow, before his eyes narrowed, and he stopped himself from following. At the bottom of the steps, Dean looked back and frowned.

“What’s the matter, Cas?” Castiel looked over Dean very, very carefully. 

“You’re not Dean.” Castiel stated firmly, his bright blue eyes narrowing. Dean raised his eyebrows. “Where is Dean? What did you do with him?” Castiel demanded, feeling panic begin to rise up in the pit of his stomach. Dean was missing. Dean was in danger. Dean was hurt. Where was he? Dean walked up a few steps. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Cas. I am Dean. You sick or something?” Castiel moved away form the hand that went to his forehead. 

“You are not Dean. Dean does not call me by my name. Dean does not laugh so easily unless he is making a joke, which I do not understand. I will repeat myself: what did you do with Dean?” Dean sighed, closing his eyes. 

“I’m hurt, Cas...” When Dean opened his eyes, they weren’t the usual grey-brown, but a bright silvery color, “I’m really hurt.” Castiel’s fingers curled up into a fist, and his eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, raising his fist, but Dean leaped at him, kneeing Castiel in the gut and grabbing his wrists. Caught off guard, Castiel grunted as his head hit the concrete wall. His vision jolted for just a second, and when his eyes focused on Dean, he had a vicious smirk on his lips, and he was inches away fro Castiel’s face. “Really Cas, do you not trust me that much?” ‘Dean’ asked softly. Castiel tested the hold on his wrists; it was strong. 

“What did you do with Dean? Where is he? Tell me.” Castiel demanded through gritted teeth. Sighing, ‘Dean’ tightened his grip on Castiel’s wrists. 

“If you really want to know, he’s safe, tied up and stuck in a trunk somewhere. Maybe he’s passed out from lack of oxygen, but, I don’t really care.” ‘Dean’ grinned. Leaning forward, Dean pressed his lips to the shell of Castiel’s ear. “Since he’s busy at the moment, how about we... get to know each other?”

“I do not understand—”

Castiel’s eyes widened to a considerable amount when Dean’s lips, warm and soft, pressed against his in a hard kiss. A muffle sound of confusion left Castiel’s lips, and he tried to turn his head away, but ‘Dean’ was stronger. Why? Castiel asked himself. Maybe because he had been caught off guard, maybe because this was his first time being kissed by a male.

Maybe it was because he looked so much like Dean. 

The more Castiel looked at ‘Dean’, the more he began to imagine it really was Dean kissing him, tugging on his hair and pressing against his body. His eyes sliding shut, Castiel felt his body relax. Part of his brain screamed at him to stop, to kill this bastard and find the real Dean, but the other half was blank with shock. When something warm and wet swiped across his bottom lip, Castiel gasped, and he closed his eyes tightly when Dean’s tongue flicked against his own. Castiel protested, but Dean merely chuckled against his lips. “I know you want me, Cas. I see the way you look at me.”

“N-no—” Castiel gasped. Pulling away from the other’s mouth, Dean pressed his lips against Castiel’s jaw, and the other male shivered at the hint of teeth against his skin. Pressing his lips against Castiel’s Adam’s apple, Dean sucked hard. A low rumble sounded from Castiel’s throat, and his head fell back against the concrete. Dean smirked against Castiel’s heated skin, and began to push the trench coat off of Castiel’s shoulders. Biting on Castiel’s neck, Dean-look-alike slipped his finger into the knot of Castiel’s tie, pulling the knot down and slipping the tie from his shoulders as well. 

Soon, Castiel’s trench coat and tie were in a heap on the floor, and his white business shirt was unbuttoned slightly. Castiel found himself making noises he never knew he could make. One minute, he’d be moaning, another, short whimpers escaped his throat. Fingers curled around Dean’s jacket, and Castiel found it hard to breathe. The world was spinning; his senses were being overloaded with Dean. Dean, kissing his neck, Dean, grabbing his hair, Dean, pressing his bottom half against Castiel’s own. 

Castiel’s mind was so clouded; he didn’t even realize he had closed his eyes. Opening his eyes, Castiel looked into Dean’s silvery ones. ‘Dean’ smirked at Castiel’s vacant expression, and he pressed his hips forward, making Castiel’s breath hitch in his throat. Dean’s hand groped his hips, then his upper thigh, then lower...

“HEY!” A loud, infuriated shout caused ‘Dean’ to whip around, breaking the kiss with Castiel. The angel had a dazed look in his eyes, and he swayed lightly where he stood. “Get away from him, bastard!” Castiel found it hard to focus, but when he looked over, he saw two Dean’s fighting one another. The sound of skin against skin filled Castiel’s ears, and he shook his head, trying to clear his senses. Dean, the real or fake one, Castiel had a hard time at the moment focusing on who was who, punched the other Dean in the jaw and kneed him so hard, a pained cry sounded through the air, then the other Dean curled up, and a loud shot was heard, and he stilled. 

“...Dean?” Castiel asked. Breathing heavily, Dean nodded, stumbling over to where Castiel was frozen to the spot. Dean rolled his shoulder. 

“Yeah, it’s me.” Castiel sighed, he’d have to double check later, but the aura around this Dean was much calmer, friendlier. “You OK?” Nodding slightly, Castiel stared at the Dean curled up, motionless on the floor. “Was he that good?” Again, Castiel nodded.

“I believe so.” Silence between the two, where they both stared at the body of the second Dean. Coughing awkwardly, Dean caught Castiel’s attention. “So... exactly how much did... I... did he do to you?” Dean asked, looking over Castiel’s swollen lips and dreamy expression. 

“I... he...” Castiel felt his cheeks heat up, and he faltered when Dean smirked. “What is it...?” he asked. Walking forward, Castiel found himself pinned against the wall for the second time that night. Dean’s grey-brown eyes sparkled mischievously, a predatory grin stretching across his lips, his oh-so-kissable lips. Leaning to whisper in Castiel’s ear, the angel’s mind went blank when Dean whispered three words into his ear. 

“Wanna keep going?”


	2. Back Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock returns. John is hurt and confused.

"I'm back, John." Sherlock's deep, soft voice was laced with guilt.

"You... you're alive?" John choke out, dumbfounded. His body was frozen to the spot, and his throat closed up. Sherlock nodded, his clear blue eyes searching John's clouded, confused ones. "But I... no you... you're dead!" John protested. He knew this was a trick, perhaps it was a hologram, a sick trick set up by Mycroft. But he knew Mycroft wouldn't joke about this. He knew. He knew.

"I didn't die, I'm right here, in front of you," Sherlock took a step forward towards John. 

"No, you... you were dead! I buried you! I saw you fall! I saw the blood!" John gasped. The air was suddenly suffocating him. Sherlock merely shook his head, taking another tentative step.

"It wasn't my blood, it was blood that had been frozen, but it wasn't mine," he explained. John found it hard to swallow.

"No... this... it's impossible! You're not Sherlock Holmes!" He cried defiantly. Sherlock stopped, hurt flashing through his eyes. 

"I am," he contradicted softly. John shook his head, his eyes stinging. 

"No... I-I can't believe this..." he choked, pressing his hand against his eyes. Two years without the detective, and he had changed. He had gotten married, but his wife died, his limp had returned, he had just gotten used to living with Mrs. Hudson, and now Sherlock returned? He couldn't believe it.

"John..." the soft pleading voice made him look up, and he saw Sherlock was less than an arm's length away. "John, please. I know it's hard to believe, but I'm alive and in the flesh. See?" And reaching out, the consulting detective took John's warm, trembling hand in his cool, large one. John nearly melted at the feeling of Sherlock's fingers curling around his own. His legs felt like jelly, but somehow he managed to stay up. 

"Sh-Sherlock..." he finally whimpered in a broken voice. He collapsed into Sherlock's arms, and felt himself being surrounded by warmth, real warmth. Pressing a hand to his mouth, John suppressed sobs, his body shaking, and Sherlock buried his face in John's shoulders. 

"I'm here, I'm here..." the other male murmured in his ear, and John felt another sob wrack his body. He felt Sherlock, felt his hair, his skin, his hand on the back of his head, felt him.

"Sherlock..." he cried again, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding as tight as he could. Sherlock returned the gesture. "Wh-why did you come back now? Why now?" John's voice was muffled, quivering. 

"I told you before, didn't I?" Sherlock breathed. John pulled back, confused. Sherlock's lips twitched upward in a smile. Leaning forward, this time he pressed a kiss to John's lips, tasting salt from the tears. "I told you before," he murmured against soft, quivering lips,

"I'd be lost without my blogger."


	3. In Sickness and In Health

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock refuses to admit he's weak.

Sherlock hated getting sick. He hated how he'd be freezing one minute, and the next, he'd be sweating and want to strip off his heavy coat and scarf and lay on top of the sheets in his bed. He hated how he couldn't talk without wanting to cough or sneeze, and he hated how his IQ dropped at least one hundred points, making him sound like Anderson. He loathed the feeling altogether. 

"Sherlock! I've been calling you for five minutes, are you alright?" He heard John call from the living room. Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to sound as normal as possible.

"I'm fine!" He called back, almost immediately grimacing at how stuffy his voice sounded. John didn't come barging through his bedroom door, so Sherlock let out a mental sigh of relief. He hadn't noticed. 

However, as the days turned into weeks, Sherlock found it harder and harder to ignore his cough, his temperature change, and the fatigue. With every other step, he swayed slightly, and his cough got worse. 

Sherlock saw black dots in front of his vision, and rubbed his eyes. The dots went away. "Well, we'll give you more details later. C'mon John. Let's go get dinner." Sherlock stood. Three steps to the door, he felt his legs give out. John called his name in a panic, there was slight pain in his head, and the sound of everyone's voice was getting fainter and fainter.

"Sherlock?! Sherlock--"

[...]

Sherlock didn't know how long he was out for. All he knew is he was lying on something soft, his bed, he deduced, judging from the cushion under his head and the sheets on top of him. He felt something cool and damp on his forehead, and boy, did it feel good. He shifted, groaning when it self like there were needles in his brain. "John," he mumbled, his voice slurred. "John?" he called again, a bit stronger. 

Sherlock pushed himself up from the bed, the cool and damp object falling off. It was a washcloth. Sherlock put a hand to his head and looked outside. It was morning, and the sky was a blend of blue hues. "John!" he called once more. Footsteps sounded outside the door, and it opened, revealing John in his black and white stripped sweater. 

"You alright?" The blonde asked, looking over Sherlock's face, concerned. 

"How long was I out?" Sherlock mumbled, coughing. 

"A whole day. It's five in the morning." John said. Sherlock cleared his throat, looking around his room. 

"Here." John held out a glass of water, and Sherlock took it with trembling hands, downing the glass in a few gulps. "Are you feeling any better?" John asked. Sherlock merely shrugged. "Well, you're going to have to take some medicine. Stay here." John commanded. Sherlock's nose wrinkled at the mention of the horrid red liquid. 

"I don't want to." He said stubbornly. John, who was almost to the door, sighed. 

"You have to take medicine, Sherlock. You'll get better faster."

"I don't think that forcing me to sleep through medicine will help me get better faster." Sherlock argued. John sighed.

"Look, Sherlock, just take some. I'll bring some tea to wash down the taste." Sherlock merely looked the other way, and John slipped out of the room. He came back a few minutes later, carrying a cup of tea and a bottle of the medicine. "Here." He handed Sherlock the cap filled with the red liquid, and Sherlock took it, furrowing his eyebrows and already tasting the horrible liquid on his tongue. "It'll be over real quick, promise." John encouraged softly. With a bland look sent in John's direction, Sherlock downed the medicine, nearly coughing again, and grasped the tea cup in one hand, taking a large gulp of tea. It did wash out the taste, but it still lingered in his mouth. 

"Disgusting." Was his only comment. John rolled his eyes. 

"Now sleep. You'll feel better in the morning." Sherlock grasped John's sleeve. 

"Wait," he said, "stay here with me."

"Sherlock, I can't, I've got..." John trailed off, looking into Sherlock's pleading gaze. 

"Please?" Sherlock asked. Their eyes remained locked for a few more minutes, before John put down the cup and cap, defeated. 

"Alright." John said, "let me just go get a chair--"

"No. Sleep with me." Sherlock commanded. John raised his eyebrow. "Oh come on, it's not like I'm asking you to--"

"Yeah, I know, I know." John interrupted hastily. Sherlock grinned. "Oh... alright, move over." Sherlock obeyed, lifting up the sheets so John could join him under the covers. John lay down next to him, and Sherlock wrapped his arms around the doctor, resting his cheek on John's head. John sighed, he seemed to be doing that a lot lately, but pressed back up against Sherlock. The two lay in silence as the sun began to peek over the tops of the buildings. Feeling content, Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling sleep begin to cloud his senses. Before he fell asleep, he heard John murmur,

"Get well soon, you idiot."

Sherlock smiled.

[EXTENDED ENDING]

"Achoo!" John sneezed. Mrs. Hudson jumped.

"Are you alright, dear? Are you getting a cold?" She asked worriedly. John shrugged. 

"It might just be the dust." But as Mrs. Hudson left, John put a hand to his forehead, and sneezed again. "Sherlock..." He growled. Standing on his feet, Sherlock pulled John from the armchair without a word.

"You did this!" John grumbled as Sherlock lead him to bed.

"Yes, yes." He waved it off.


End file.
